The King in the North
by ApertureMan
Summary: Daenerys has only just conquered Kings Land when she receives an urgent missive from Robb Stark, the King in the North. At his request, she travels to Winterfell, unknowingly stepping into a war with death itself.
1. Chapter 1

Wow. I never thought I'd write another fic, if I'm being honest. Being in college and trying to write has proven to be so overwhelming that I had to abandon my previous story, and that was almost 2 years ago... crazy. If I didn't like the idea for this story so much, I would've never returned (to write that is... I'm constantly reading). I will do my very best to update this story bi-weekly at the latest. I'm already working on chapter two, so that should be out no later than October first. I would very much appreciate any and all feedback; those kinds of things motivate me to put more out.

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**Timeline**

Shortly after the battle for the wall and Ygritte's death during the fray, Jon Snow surrenders himself to Mance Rayder in the hopes to assassinate him and end the war between the Nights Watch and the Wildlings. That night, they are set upon by a host of wights and white walkers who tear through the camp, adding thousands to their undead host as the remainder of the wildlings, along with Jon Snow, flee north to Hardhome, the last 'safe' encampment north of the wall. For the next 5 years, the wildlings reinforce and skirmish against the army of the undead, winning some slight victory but suffering some major losses. Their numbers are dwindling; they are losing this fight.

At the wall, Ser Alisser Thorne has been elected Lord Commander of the Nights watch. He has labeled Jon Snow an enemy of the realm who should be executed on sight. Gilly is sent south live at Hornhill with baby Sam. Rangers continue to disappear as tensions mount north of the wall; finally, one man returns with stories of undead men wandering the forests and blue eyed nightmares cutting through his compatriots.

In the North, Robb Stark marries Roselin Frey to keep his honor intact, and leads a noble, yet unsuccessful campaign against the Lannisters. Joffrey is still killed at his wedding by a combination of LittleFinger and Olenna Tyrell, with King Tommen ascending to the Throne. Tommen sues for peace with the north, wanting to prevent further bloodshed, offering them Sansa and their independence. A shaky alliance is born, and, after hearing of Theon's betrayal, Robb marches back north to reclaim his home land, driving the Ironborn back into the sea and killing their prince. Brandon and Rickon return home with Osha, Hodor, Summer and Shaggydog. Robb rules the north with the same grace and proficiency as his father before him, though urgent missives from the Wall regarding horrifying rumors have preoccupied much of his mental state.

Across the Narrow Sea, Arya Stark has become no-one, and seeks passage home.

In Meereen, Daenerys has defeated the masters who had come to lay siege to her shores, capturing their ships and setting her eyes across the narrow sea. King Tommen will be easy to drive from the capital, and her time has almost come.

We follow the hardhome timeline most carefully: all others have been sped up or slowed down to match.

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_**The Cornered Stag **_

From his window high above the city that sat, quivering in anticipation and fear, Tommen could see that the rumors of the size of the Targaryen host were not unfounded as he had hoped they would be. A warm breeze wafted through his sheer curtains and into his room, smelling of the sea and smoke, whispering of what was to come. Campfires twinkled along the shore outside of Kings Landing like stars, fallen from the heavens; they stretched out for as far as the eye could see. It was beautiful when looked upon as an abstraction, Tommen thought. If only such a pretty thing signaled for more pleasant tidings.

It had been almost two years since his brothers death. In those two years, the young king had set about trying to rebuild the bridges that Joffery had burned, attempting to restore the people's faith in the crown. The most significant thing he had done during his tenure at the helm of the six kingdoms to cover those wounds was to build back up the Faith. The seven had played an important role in his upbringing; before his Grandfather's untimely death at the hands of his uncle, he had told Tommen that a wise king is one who listens. Tommen had tried, to the best of his abilities, to listen. The High Sparrow talked often, and loudly, though it seemed to the young Baratheon as though he had many wise things to say.

Things hadn't worked out the way he had intended though. Before the Faith had returned to its previous austerity, he had been blind to his mother's sin and corruption: the High Sparrow had laid it bare for the city to see. Cersei had not been the same since her walk of atonement: her eyes were often glassy and unseeing as she appeared lost in thought. Regardless of how successful he had been in regaining the loyalty of his subjects, he regretted this side effect, and knowing that his actions had caused his mother so much pain had been the source of many sleepless nights on his behalf.

Tommen had always dreamed of being king. Now he was living his nightmare. Those who lived in the city below looked to him to defend them from those who would do them harm; those who would do them harm had made camp just outside the gate. He could see the giant host even now, under the cover of nightfall, swarming like ants. A black wave, ready to swallow the capital in a sea of fire and blood. _Fire and Blood_; the words of House Targaryen, born anew under this so called Dragon Queen, though the kings eyes had yet to see any evidence that the moniker was anything other than embellishment. When reports that Daenerys had finally set her eyes westward reached his ears, he was sure that her arrival would've been marked by a pillar of fire cleaving the red keep in two, yet he had seen neither hide nor scale of any Dragon, much less three. Regardless, his uncle Kevan had made sure that he understood that Dragons or no Dragons, the enemy forces that currently resided on his shores outnumbered his own 10 to 1. _The Tyrells won't get here in time_.

Sighing, Tommen left his moonlit balcony to seek his bed. _Rest_, he thought. _I have a city to save tomorrow._

_**The Targaryen Conqueror**_

The dawn broke bloodred. The jeers of the Dothraki caused goose pimples to raise on her arms and back as she walked through the campgrounds, her battle armor catching the morning light as she walked. The blackplate was embossed with silver etchings that reflected the violent hue, and to any who observed her that morning, she appeared to be a Dragon herself. The ground near the beach was damp, the mud clinging to the soles of her boots as she made her way towards the command tent. Already the heat of the Westerosi sun was catching the moisture in the air, coating everything with a balmy mist.

A sea breeze pulled at the flap of the large black tent and she stepped inside. The room grew quiet at Dany stood, silhouetted in the entrance. Tyrion Lannister had an exhausted look on his face when he greeted her, a small smile fleeting across his dwarfish features.

"Your Grace," he began, fatigue and the gravity of the situation clearly weighing down his words. "Grey Worm has left to muster the Unsullied, while Jorah has gone to the Dothraki. They will march to the gates in an hours time." He paused them, the faintest glint returning to his kind eyes. "How are you feeling?", he asked, looking her up and down.

"Destiny has brought me this far, my lord of Lannister," she quipped, a savage smile appearing on her face, "nerves will not best me now." He nodded, drinking deeply from the cup he had clutched in his hands. "Good," he said as he resurfaced, his knuckles white from the intense grip on its gilded handle as he admired her. "A Targaryen queen indeed. Be safe up there, your grace." He lifted the goblet now as she turned on her heel, a childish spring in her step as she walked towards the woods were her children sheltered.

The air seemed cooler now and she took a deep breath, relishing the feel of everything, of the _moment_.

"So," she said in a whispered tone, addressing the blue sky that consumed everything above her, "_shall we begin?_".

As Daenerys spiraled towards the ground on Dragons back, the feeling of flight causing adrenaline to course through her veins, she marveled at the sight. It looked like something out of a childhood dream; a miniature kingdom, and she, the Queen. Squinting her eyes, she could make out the large blocks of dots in a line that she knew to be her army, waiting patiently for her signal under the unrelenting sun. Her flight path was the smartest one: Varys had no shortage of warnings for her about the weapon that Cersei had devised to slay her Dragons. Even now, she could see her targets lining the outer gates of the city, their ugly wooden frames presenting the most realistic threat to her conquest.

The thought of one of her children falling from the sky, a bolt impaled in their neck set her blood on fire as she drew ever closer. She could hear screams now, and a bell being run frantically; someone seems to have finally noticed her, but it was far too late by now. Her eyes filled with violent joy as the first Scorpion drew within range.

"_Dracarys_".

Drogon flew along the wall, the plume of fire pouring from his mouth obliterating all that was unfortunate enough to stand in his way. In her periphery, she could see Rhaegal doing the same around the other side while Viserion made the main gate of Kings Landing the subject of his fury. Below her, she was vaguely aware of the screams of the dying men whom had manned the weapons that were meant to bring her children down. The sound was like music to her ears, and she smiled as Drogon continued his fiery mission, wiping out Cersei's only chance of an unlikely victory with one fell swoop. Soon, all the Scorpions were destroyed and Daenerys commanded Drogon to take her higher, not wanting to be in range of any ambitious archers. For while Dany sought the death of those who would harm her or those whom she loved, she desperately wanted to minimize civilian casualties. She and Tyrion had concluded that using her dragons to raze the Lannister troops in the streets posed too high of a risk to those who called this city their home.

She had no intention of being Queen of the Ashes. She had come to save this city from a tyrant who was playing the King for a fool, not to become the next one. When Tyrion and her had discussed his Nephew, she felt a pang of sympathy for the boy; from what her hand had told her of him, he sounded like a kind, level headed young man who had been handed a heavy burned at far too young of an age. _Still_, she pondered as she watched her forces cut through the King's like a hot knife through butter, _he could have sued for peace_. Tyrion saw her reasoning in this, though not before making her promise him that she would spare the boy's life if opportunity allowed.

A searing heat and a thunderous explosion wrenched her from her thoughts as a mushroom cloud, green and black, rocketed upwards from the Great Sept, consuming everything that stood in its way for a mile around. She stared in horror as the cloud rose higher into the sky, the heat from the explosion searing across her skin. Even from here, she could hear people screaming. Tears stung her eyes as she sat atop her largest child, hating what she was feeling; helpless. Helpless to save those that she longed to free. Another explosion shook her to her core as a portion of the city slid into the ocean along the eastern wall. Her vision turned red and she shook with anger as green fire pocket marked the capital of the seven kingdoms. _Kill them all_, she thought, and fury was the only thing she knew as she and her children set off towards the red keep.

_**The Cornered Stag **_

Deep within Maegor's holdfast, his mother was losing her mind. Tears poured from bloodshot green eyes as her face was carved into a maniacal smile at the horror that was unfolding below them. The walls were aflame with Dragonfire, their scorpions destroyed. The city was ablaze with wildfire, consuming thousands of innocent lives. The Targaryen army was carving a path through the royal troops towards the Keep. The battle was lost, Tommen knew, and he had lost. He was weak, just like Joffery had always told him he was. He was worthless, just like his older brother had always said.

He had failed to do the one thing he had been charged with doing, and that failure would have overwhelmed him in that moment had it not been for his mother. He watched now horrified, as she shrank back into a darkened corner of the room, her tongue hanging out of her mouth as she bit down on it, blood running down her chin in dark rivulets as she clawed at her eyes. Wheezing, she rocked back and forth.

Tommen felt as though there was a hole where his heart ought to have been.

As another plume of black smoke and green fire rose from the ruin below him, he knew that she was responsible. He couldn't explain how or why, but he could feel it: Cersei was determined to bring down the whole city if she knew her family couldn't hold it. Taking off his crown and placing it on the table that stood infront of him, he walked to his open window, his mind already made up.

He climbed up onto the rail, the smell of death permeating his every sense as he let himself fall over the edge. The ground rushed up to meet him, his eyes closing the moment before they finally embraced.

The city fell as the king did, and Cersei did not move as Dragonfire tore through the pink stone of the red keep, swallowing her whole.

_**The Little Lion**_

He found her seated on the stairs outside of what was left of the Red Keep, covered in ash from head to toe.

Her hair was wild, as were her eyes, yet she managed to maintain an outer appearance of composure, regardless of whatever emotion ran wild within her. She was alone, Greyworm guarding her from the foot of the staircase with a set of unsullied hoplites as she gazed out across the ravaged city, pain beginning to etch itself across her features.

As the sun set, the light filtering through the ash and haze, his feeling of sorrow abated slightly as he looked at her, awash in the golden sun, her eyes dancing with fire. _Not a Queen_, he thought, a _savior_.


	2. Chapter 2

_**The Targaryen Queen**_

The cold of the North didn't suit her, she decided, as her silver slogged through the clingy dirt, frost and the smell of pine permeating her every sense. _If we ride hard, we'll reach Winterfell by sundown_, her hand had told her at an unholy hour that morning; now, the dying light glinted and fragmented through the millions of facets that lay within the ice all around her. _There was a certain beauty to this desolate landscape_, she pondered, _though it would be far easier to appreciate if it wasn't so damn cold._

It had been a long journey North, made longer still by the fact that she, along with the rest of those under her command, were weary of fighting, weary of traveling, and longing to plant their seeds and rest. She shuddered as an icy gale penetrated her thickest winter coat; nothing could have prepared her for the cold. Still, dealing with the North was necessary: she and her advisors had begun to speak of how to deal with their 'independent' Northern neighbors when she had received an urgent missive from Robb Stark, the so called _King _of one of _her kingdoms_. She was sure that attempting to persuade him to bend the knee would not be easy, but she would not shy away from a difficult task. If he had been unmarried then that would've been a pain free way of once again uniting westeros, but he had already been wed to a woman from House Frey. _A pity,_ she thought as her violet eyes scanned the bleak horizon, the snow and ice all consuming as the front of the column passed between two swooping hills, _by every account he is quite comely_. The thought made her shift in her saddle. _It had been far too long_.

Her hand rode quietly beside her, and she could feel his uneasiness rolling off him like a wave. While she had initially reacted towards these Northern pretenders seeking her help with hostility, her hand had begged her to choose a path of leniency. _The Starks were good_, he had told her. _Honorable, intelligent, strong willed_, he had said, his eyes sparkling as he stared into the brazier in front of him, lost in his melancholy thought as his eyes twinkled at a memory from long ago, _and fiercely loyal. You must tread lightly my queen; no doubt you could conquer them, but at what cost to you? _She had sat, listening to the crackle of the embers, enjoying the sweet southern breeze that had blown through the rather large fissure in what was supposed to be the royal chambers. _Enlighten me_, she had said, leaning forward, her gaze fixed solely on the smaller man in front of her. _Tell me of the Starks._ He laughed and sipped his arbor gold, a true smile etched on his face for the first time in months.

He had told her of Robb, the oldest; his father born again, honorable, noble, yet rash at times. Of Sansa, who took after her Tully mother in looks and in fierceness. He told of Arya, who looked so much like Lyanna Stark that it was truly frightening to all those who beheld her; he told her of the two youngest boys, Brandon and Rickon, and of the Direwolves.

"And who could forget Jon Snow," he said, swallowing another sip of his wine, "the only mark against Ned Starks impeccable honor." He had told her of the Northern Bastard, of their journey to the wall together. From his tone and the fondness on his face, she could tell that he had once cared for this Jon Snow, though that did not come as much of a surprise to her. Her hand had a habit of forming attachments to cripples, bastards and broken things.

She was roused from her recounting as they crested the hill, the terrain in front of her leveling out and then sloping up again. At the top of that slope sat a sprawling Stone Castle, its circular towers and high walls looking as sturdy as the people who built them. _Winterfell_. Long ago, across the Narrow Sea, Daenerys had been brought up by stories of the Northern Castle, whispered to her by the tongue of the false dragon. Viserys had made ghastly claims about the Northmen: that they were all savages that resorted to cannibalism when the snows fell especially hard. It was a place that occupied her worst dreams; a place that she thought she would never see. Now, that little girl was dead, and the woman grown in her place steeled her heart against such fanciful tales. Had there been any truth to them, her hand would have informed her long ago, and they would still be sitting under the comfortable southern sun instead of trodding through this artic waste. The ground her teeth, her eyes fixed on the fortress in front of her; _this was a necessary unpleasantry_. Spurring her Silver on, she rode at the front gates, her heart pounding louder in her ears with every step.

_**The Wolf in Winterfell**_

Robb Stark was no green boy, but the Targaryen Queen took his breath away. When he had wed Roselin Frey, he had thought her to be the most beautiful thing in the world: a beauty that made his heart flutter within his chest. Now, gazing upon Daenerys, he knew that she could not be of this world. Her hair was a striking shade of silver; like moonlight, rippling across bared steel. Her eyes, two perfect amethysts, set in a face of silk, soft and pure. There was nothing gentil, however, about her demeanor. As she rode through the gates of Winterfell dressed for war, followed by her trusted advisors and highest commanders, she looked every bit the fierce southern dragon who had taken King's Landing with fire and blood. Robb swallowed, refusing to let his eyes drop from her advancing form. He knew he was taking a risk by entreating her to meet with him; _this is a necessary risk_. For the survival of the North, of Westeros; of all man-kind. _If Jon is still out there_… but he wouldn't let himself think of his brother now. _Courage_.

Daenerys dismounted in front of him and strode across the Winterfell courtyard, her entourage following suit. She was very short, he realized with a jolt, compensating for whatever she lacked in height with imperiousness and intimidation. Sansa ribbed him with her elbow every so slightly, shaking him back into the moment as he stepped forward, dipping his head.

"Your grace," he said, his breath steaming in the cold northern air, "I welcome you too Winterfell. You must be tired from your long journey; please, allow my men to show you and yours to your rooms. We shall hold a feast in your honor in two hours time." She hesitated, turning to look at Tyrion Lannister, her hand. The Dwarf nodded, and she faced him again, a small smile turning up the corners of her mouth.

"You are most kind, my lord," she said, "we have ridden long and hard. Food and a hot fire sound most appealing; I fear that your climate does not agree with me, nor most of my southern companions." Indeed, they did look miserable. Robb took a moment to rake his eyes over those who had journeyed north with her: Dothraki savages, dressed only in their thin riding garb: Unsullied soldiers, clothed in thin looking, long sleeve uniforms. _Ill-prepared indeed_, he thought, motioning his stewards forward to help their weary guests when Sansa spoke, the frost in her voice overpowering that which lay atop the ground on which they stood.

"Pardon me, your grace," she began, her azure eyes sharp as icicles in the fading sunlight, "I know you have not been in this country for long, but Robb is _King_ in the North, not a lord. Tommen of the House Baratheon granted the North our independence in perpetuity when we marched on the Capital. I'm not sure what your advisors had or had not told you," she paused, dislike and distrusted in her voice thinly veiled by false courtesy as she glanced at Lord Tyrion, "but you should refer to my brother as such. He is your equal, after all."

The last vestiges of orange began to disappear as the moon rose in the east. The courtyard had fallen into a hushed silence, the tension so palpable that you could almost reach out and touch it. Daenerys Targaryen looked at his sister with a gaze that held so much venom he almost felt the need to step in front of her to shield her from it. She smiled now, sickly sweet.

"Of course, Lady Sansa," she said, stepping forward. Robb bristled, his right hand twitching at the perceived danger. If the Targaryen Queen noticed his movement, she did not show it. "His grace and I," she turned to him now, locking him in place with her purple gaze, "have that to discuss… among many other things. The King in the North seems incapable of dealing with this so called 'threat beyond the wall'. Isn't that why I'm here, after-all?" Her eyes had turned mocking, her posture arrogant; her words though had brought Robb tumbling back to his senses. He met her now, stepping forward with a renewed confidence, fueled by the necessity of this situation, of this would-be alliance. "Death marches south, Daenerys Targaryen," he said, his grey eyes dueling hers, "and you're our best chance of beating him back."

_**The Targaryen Queen**_

She was truly at a loss for words as she looked at the comely face of Robb Stark, the morning northern light filtering through the warped glass that covered the majority of the walls within his solar. Tyrion was bent over a drawing of the supposed 'Nightking', his icy stare capturing her Hand's attention. He was shaking slightly, she noticed. The tale that she had just been told was something straight out of the stories that Viserys had used to whisper into her ear: a story of men of Ice and their undead armies trying to destroy the kingdom she had sacrificed so much to conquer. It could not be true; it must not be true. She should have burned the King in the North where he stood for trying to scare her, and she might have said as much had her intuition stopped her.

Who was she, the mother of dragons, the woman who brought magic back into the world, to deem someones story as fanciful. No, she could tell by the way that Robb Starks voice trembled at times that he was telling the truth; there was a serious threat to Westeros's northern border, and it was one that required her full attention. He was watching her now, his warm, gray eyes trained on her, scanning her face for signs of disbelief or distrust, one hand idly scratching his auburn beard.

"I wish, for all the gods that this wasn't true," Tyrion spoke to the table, his eyes still fixed upon the drawing, "but I can't ignore all the facts." He looked now to Robb, whose expression was one of visible surprise.

"You believe me then?" the Northman said, his voice almost a whisper. Her hand nodded, worry creasing his brow. "I do," Tyrion responded, "when I journeyed to the wall with your brother, the Lord Commander at the time, Jeor Mormont" behind her, Jorah shifted, "spoke of rangers disappearing and dead men walking through the forests. One of them even tried to kill him apparently," a trace of a smile graced her Hand's lips. Robb just stared at him, obviously dumbfounded that he hadn't had to press the matter further.

"For what it's worth, your grace," she said, amused by the way his attention snapped back to her, "I believe you as well." She looked to her hand now, her demeanor serious, "As a good friend of mine once said, ' I trust the eyes of an honest man over that which everyone knows'. You are an honest man Robb Stark, are you not?" He clenched his jaw at her inquisition.

"I am, your grace," he responded, his northern burr marring his words. He looked between her and her hand now, renewed confidence appearing on his comely features.

"Good," she responded, leaning closer to him across the table, "then I believe we have much to discuss."

_**The White Wolf**_

The screams of the dying mixed with the howl of the wind, snow falling thick and fast. Visibility was so incredibly limited, he might as well have been fighting blind. Longclaw blazed in front of him, the fire guiding his steps as he ran, each breath more labored than the previous. He had to get back to Hardhome, to warn his people: death was not coming.

Death was here.


	3. Chapter 3

_**The Little Lion**_

Tyrion Lannister was miserable. The cold that surrounded him and clung to the dreary landscape through which they trekked was all encompassing and entirely unabating; even the sun in the sky seemed to give up on casting any warmth down onto his _distinctly southern features _. Lannisters were not made for the snow, he decided as they crossed a frozen stream, the methodical crunch of the unsullied's boots adding a rhythmic quality to this miserable journey.

It had been a long two days since they left Winterfell, which he had been sorry to leave in retrospect; the barren wastes and icy forests that lay beyond the Northern capital made it feel like a dornish palace by comparison. Once, Tyrion had looked back on his time at the wall with fondness and a hint of Nostalgia; now, the Hand of the Queen wondered what must have been muddling his mind to make him experience such delusions.

They were close now, he knew. Soon the tip of the icy wall fade into existence on the edge of their cold, blue horizon. What waited for them when they got there; Tyrion shuddered, though this time it had nothing to do with the weather. _White Walkers _. It was almost too fanciful to be true, but, as Daenerys had reminded him on the first night they were in Winterfell, most of the world had thought that Dragons had gone from it forever; now, they ruled over the continent that he called home. He wished they were with them; had his Queen known that they would be embarking on a journey to fight Ice Gods at the edge of the world, maybe she would have brought those made of fire.

Tyrion plodded along at the middle of the Column, enjoying the quiet that riding next to the Unsullied brought with them whenever they went. Just this once, he had no capacity for small talk, and the burn in his chest distinctly made him feel as though they were making a mistake with this venture.

_**The Watcher on the Wall**_

Hypocrisy was something that Ser Alliser Thorne despised. When Jon Snow, the miserable, honorable cunt that he was, had ridden under the stars in a foolish attempt to help his brother in his doomed war, Thorne had felt nothing but disgust. It was easy, however, to feel contemptuous then. Now, watching Targaryen Queen's approaching figure leading the head of the biggest army Thorne had ever seen challenged his vows of neutrality more than anything ever had. The men of the Night's watch were supposed to dispel any and all loyalties to any Houses, Kings or _Queens _to whom they may have been previously sworn; it had been bitter, yet easy to forswear a house that he had once thought extinct.

Thorne had never been kind to Robb Stark; though he had never met the man in the flesh, all the missives that were sent to Winterfell were cold and curt, and the King in the North had written back in the same frosty hand. It weighed on his heart now: to treat with this Northern man on the same level as a ruler from the house to whom he had been sworn. _It almost felt like another life _, the Lord Commander mused, his black, leather gloves curling around the snow kissed bannister, watching the head of the approaching entourage come closer and closer. So many years at the wall had frozen his heart solid; some days, he wondered if he even had a heart left at all. But he must, he knew, for he felt the brief murmur of something warm deep within his chest as he watched the head of Platinum hair ride up to his gate, her eyes all purple fire and determination. Yes, hypocrisy was something that Alliser Thorne despised; he would not be a hypocrite now. The gate shuttered as it raised, loosely clinging snow drifting to the permafrost that covered the dirt. He steeled himself as the Queen from the South and the King in the North rode into Castle Black. Jon Snow's brother looked nothing like him; Robb's auburn hair and softer features were more akin to those of a Tully, from what he could remember. _That's a good thing _, Ser Alliser mused, for even the thought of the traitors face made his stomach turn with fury.

He approached them now as more and more of their men sauntered into the courtyard, the breaths of horses and men mixing together in the frost bitten air.

"Your Grace, your Grace," he said, nodding to head to each in kind, "Welcome to Castle black." He motioned behind him, gesturing vaguely to the Lord Commanders tower. "If I might have a word with you both."

_**The Targaryen Queen **_

The fire that burned in Alliser Thorne's solar did nothing to drive out the cold that filled her to her core. She cast her eyes around the room again, taking in the scattered maps and scrolls that littered his desk and the floor surrounding it. There was a half written scroll that caught her attention in particular, upon whose yellow pages were scrawled in something that looks suspiciously like blood. The room smelled too, thick with the scent of dust and the cold, of bird dung and age; Thorne was an old man afterall.

His voice rasped through her thoughts like steel grating against steel.

"The dead are coming," he began, his watery blue eyes flicking between the King and the Queen seated before his great oak desk. His face formed something of a grimace cleared as he spit into the corner of the room before he spoke again; Daenerys inwardly recoiling. "This has been our war now for months. I've been losing men, for months. I even had to let the fucking wildlings through the wall." He said the last part as though the words were driving a knife into his leather clad chest. "But I've been doing it because it's necessary. You haven't seen the threat to the North, your graces," the lines in his face seemed to deepen, expression contorting into poorly disguised anger, "but I have. We all have up here." He turned then to face the portly bow standing in the corner, whom Daenerys had only just noticed a moment prior.

"How many scrolls have we sent south, Sam, pleading for aid?", Thorne asked, spittle flying from his thing mouth. The fat boy barely raised his eyes, his voice barely audible above the crackling of the hearth.

"Hundreds- a thousand, maybe."

The Lord Commander shook his head in disgust, irises full of hate as he raised them to look at Daenerys, and then Robb.

"A thousand scrolls. And while you've been squabbling amongst yourselves down south, I've been fighting the only war that matters, with only fucking cowards," he gestured towards Sam, "and dying old men."

Robb sat there, his demeanor cool despite the tirade of insults that had just been flung his way. Daenerys admired his ability to maintain his composure, for she felt about ready to feed Alliser Thorne to her Dragons, had they been here. The King in the North sat forward then, his hands curling and uncurling into fists below the desk.

"I'm sure much doesn't make it up here to your miserable corner of the world, Ser Alliser," he said, his northern accent lacing his aggressive words, "But I've been in the middle of dealing with a Bolton Rebellion while Daenerys here," he glanced at her before turning his focus back to the Lord Commander, "has been busy overthrowing the most corrupt monarchy that has ruled over this continent for decades." Thorne's eyes narrowed, yet he remained silent.

"We're here now," Robb continued, eyebrows still furrowed, "and behind us; the greatest army that Westeros has ever seen." Thorne laughed then, though there was no humor in it.

"A Southern army," he said, spitting into the corner again, "but you won't find me complaining. I'd rather your men die than mine; the Watches numbers are thin enough as it is, what with cowards like your Bastard brother deserting us."

The temperature in the room seemed to drop even further. The look on Robbs face was cold; colder than the wall or the frozen waste that lay beyond it. He stood with a start, a whirlwind of fur and leather, and strode from the room, the thin wooden door slamming loudly on its hinges as the king in the North strode through. Thorne laughed again and spit, wiping his mouth on the back of a black leather glove. "Starks, your grace," he said, "quick to anger and incredibly dull."

Daenerys could still hear the old man laughing as she stepped out of his solar, the wind biting at her face.

_**The King Beyond the Wall**_

The sky was black, the winds screaming through his graying hair. Mance had seen some horrible storms during his decades beyond the wall, but none seemed to have the ferocity that this one promised. He could see the snow falling in the distance, the heavy downpour hurtling towards them from the mountain range that was barely visible along the horizon. It was unnatural, he knew, and the thought gripped him like a hand carved from ice. _The enemy is not the storm; the enemy brings the storm. _

The King beyond the wall stood atop the gate that surrounded the heart of the settlement at Hardhome, gazing out at the tents and temporary structures that had been set up by his people. The very same people who were running towards him now, their screams caught on the wind and carried out into the icy bay. The stockade fence that ran along the Northernmost border of the encampment was in a woeful state of disrepair, and would do little to stop the Walkers advance. He turned to the men on his right, his heart heavy with the task he must ask of them.

"Tormund, Snow," he had to yell to be heard above the din, both men turning to face their king, "take fifty of your best fighters and get to the outer wall. We need to buy them more time!" They were fleeing now by the thousands, through the gate atop which they stood and out through the mountain pass that lay behind them or out into the freezing sea on small boats, disarray and panic filling the air.

Tormund grunted and jumped down from their perch, landing on the powder belong with a soft thud. Snow looked at him, gray eyes unreadable before nodding and following his friend. He watched Jon's retreating figure disappear amongst the bodies of those trying desperately to escape, hoping that it wouldn't be the last time he saw the solemn southern. Turning, Mance shimmied down the ladder and went to find his family: in the end, he knew this was a battle he could not fight, for without him, the tribes wouldn't have agreed to work together in the first place. _No _, he thought, his head filled with shame as pushed his way through the crowd, _I am too important right now; too important to die alongside those who I have just sentenced _. Grasping the hand of his wife and shouldering his youngest, Mance did not look back as he followed the trail south, praying silently for the men who he had sent to their deaths.

_**The White Wolf**_

They rolled over them like a black tide, swallowing them whole. To his left, Karsi fell, a rusty sword mangling her pretty, pale neck. To his right, Jormunn cried out, dead fingers clawing at his skin, peeling it back as the wights ravaged his flesh, decrepit knives flicking out like deadly tongues. Jon hacked and slashed, ducking and weaving through the onslaught like a man possessed. Longclaw was a weapon of destruction, its fiery length cleaving through the undead as they pressed on in a horrible, undulating torrent.

He knew there was no point. Cleaving a rotting wildling in two, he reached for Tormund, pulling him aside as the wind whipped through their hair.

"WE HAVE TO GO!" Jon cried, wrenching his friend from the fight as he backpedaled through the knee deep snow. To his left, a Wight jumped at him; Longclaw flashed through the air and the deadman returned to the dirt. Tormund stumbled backwards, his eyes wide with panic before turning tail and fleeing, Jon hot on his heels. They passed abandoned tents, some of them burning from lamps that had been knocked over in a hurried departure. Guilt welled up in Jon; _had he bought them enough time? _In front of him, Tormunds shape disappeared into the gale. Jon tried calling out for him, but his voice was swept away on the wind. And so the bastard of Winterfell ran, his heart heavy and his lungs burning, as the place he had called home was swallowed by the snow.


End file.
